Anniversary
by Madame Rhea Di'Ey
Summary: Today, fifteen years since the death of Mikoto have passed. Anna is smoking for the occasion. [Vignette. Starring Anna, Mikoto's lighter, the city of Detroit and very obvious unfulfilled Anna/Mikoto.]


**A/N**: First time writing for the K fandom. Hopefully, not the last.

* * *

**Anniversary**

[_by Madame Rhea Di'Ey_]

**...**

The world is gray.

It is not surprising, really – the world hasn't had color since _he _left the world void of his red; since he left her deserted of his warmth. Not even his jacket, still smelling faintly of him (_woodsmoke, rain on concrete, ash and musk_) can fend off the ice projected by the world around her. She huddles in it; it's still too large for her, even after all of these years, and she won't zip it. She'll wear it just like he did. Crimson eyes snap closed, and Anna Kushina, the princess of HOMRA, buries the side of her face in the fur that lines the hood of the overgarment and inhales deeply. Slender, long fingers pat down around the side, and sneak inside the right pocket, pulling out two objects.

A pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

(_the brand he used to smoke, and his lighter._)

Anna isn't a smoker. But it's the anniversary of the day he died, and since he hasn't put his lips round a fag _("Such language, Anna-chan!" a voice like Tatara's cries in her head_) in the past fifteen years, she doesn't mind doing it for him. She has the silly hope that, wherever he is – dead or alive, she never gave up hope – he'll think of her when the stick's between her teeth. She lights it, like he would, and takes a drag.

"Mikoto..." she unconsciously sighs, as she exhales.

Silence greets her, and her legs cross as they dangle over the edge of the rooftop atop which she is perched. She looks into the night sky, clouded and void of stars; it's not the sky of Tokyo, but that of Detroit. When she turned eighteen, she couldn't really stand Japan anymore. So she packed up and left, not once looking behind. It was also when she started this tradition. Her good looks helped her worm her way into the fashion industry – she's quite the popular model, now.

But nothing's the same as it was. It hasn't been, not since...

_Don't think of him._

She squeezes her eyes shut, taking the next drag, a small voice telling her it's hypocritical not to think of the dead man whose death anniversary you're celebrating (_it feels so damn wrong to call it celebration, but it's the only term that comes to her mind_).

_Don't think of anything, _she ignores it and tells herself, but tears still slip past her long lashes and down her ivory cheeks. "Damn you," she curses the man who isn't present, throat constricted, a sob choking her. The silver-haired, twenty-six years old Strain trembles, much like a leaf blown in the wind. And all she wants right now is to hold one man with blood red hair and eyes like amber close to her chest and never let go. Never ever _ever_. But it's impossible, because that damned, reckless, wonderful bastard had to go and get himself killed when she was eleven. "Damn you!" She's not sure if her shivers are from crying or from the cold.

Her voice never rises above a whisper.

When the cigarette is done, she lets the still smoldering end drift away in the harsh wind. The way she picks a second cigarette out of the nearly full pack is borderline mechanic. The lighter makes the flat end come alive; Anna closes her eyes and keeps shivering, keeps crying, keeps remembering.

Remembering her Mikoto; his crimson hair, his gold eyes, the way the junction between his neck and shoulder smelled, forever void of cologne. The memory is as fresh as yesterday in her mind's eye. And it hurts as much as it did fifteen years ago, when his color vanished from her world and she screamed without even realizing it.

"Damn you..." She begins to hug her bent knees close to her chest, grateful she discarded her Mary Janes earlier. The cigarette, smoked halfway, dangles precariously from between her fingertips, the wind blowing the building ash away. But Anna doesn't notice. She's too busy remembering the strength of Mikoto's hands and the fire in his eyes, so evident even in her gray world; busy remembering his blood-red aura.

No red will ever match his. Not even the vermillion of the blood running hot through her veins.

The silver-haired woman sticks what's left of her second cigarette back in her mouth, twisting around to retrieve a bottle from her handbag. With a pop, there's now wine to accompany her _in memoriam_ little, tragic party. She finishes off the nicotine stick, letting the end fall and be whisked by the winter winds. She takes a swig from the glass recipient, reaching for a third cigarette. By morning, the pack will all be gone and her throat will be raw and it's going to be hurting like _hell_. And another year without him will have been over and done with, and the hollow where her heart is will be hurting the same as it did back then.

Then, after a year, she'll be smoking again, celebrating what she shouldn't and crying tears Mikoto never wanted nor needs, the memory of his smile a scar on her heart. It's her way of coping, though; so like any addict, she'll dutifully keep taking her drug until she overdoses or old age claims her.

And even if all is long since said and done, even if there is no proof her hopes are more than a fool's dream, a small part will still be hoping her King will come back for his little knight and everything will be okay again.

That her world will have color again.

Because ever since that day, when her world turned to ashes like those of his – _their _– cigarettes, this absurd hope is the only thing that has kept her sane.


End file.
